


Large Black Coffee

by BasicBathsheba



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Boys being jerks, Coffee Shop, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, do you like joggers? because SIMON DOES, honestly so many insults, insults on coffee cups, they're good boys though they just curse a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-07 06:59:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14075481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BasicBathsheba/pseuds/BasicBathsheba
Summary: “I glance at the cup before I raise it to my lips, and one eyebrow goes up when I see what ridiculous insult he’s written on the cup today.”Every day Baz comes in to get coffee, and every day he finds a new insult on his cup.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this beautiful artwork -- https://bit.ly/2pBY03T

**Simon**

“Penny, he’s back,” I groan. I rush into the back office where Penny is sitting on a stack of boxes, a huge notebook on her lap. She doesn’t even look up.

“Who’s back?”

I huff. She knows.

“Him! You know!”

She finally looks up and stares at me through her huge glasses. Some of her curly hair is stuck underneath the lenses.

“Simon. I don’t know.” 

She’s being deliberately thick, she absolutely knows, but I gesture wildly toward the front of the cafe where I know he’s currently waiting. I practically ran back here the second the door opened and I saw his stupid coat and stupid bun.

“Him! The tosser with the names.  _Baz. Basil. Basilton_. Who has two nicknames for the same name?” 

Penny has looked back down again. She’s already checked out of this conversation. She always does when I try to talk about him.

“He comes here every day. Why is this a surprise?” 

“It’s not a surprise!” I sputter. I’m getting flustered. I hate explaining things.

“Please, will you take his order? I already know what it is. I’ll make the revolting thing, just please talk to him.”

Penny sighs, one of those deep, heavy sighs that feels like a parent coming to scold you. Penny has all of those mum sounds down perfectly. She’s going to be a terrifying mum one day, but in a good way. I guess she learned it from the best. Professor Bunce is extremely intimidating.

“Simon, I have a ton of orders to go through here. Why can’t you just deal with this?”

“Because we always fight! He’s such a tosser, we always end up squabbling and today has been  _so_ good, Penny. It’s been so good. Don’t let him ruin this day for me.”

Today has been good. It’s getting colder, and I don’t feel like I’m about to burn alive for once, and I opened the cafe this morning so I got first dibs on the scones. It’s been a great day. 

I turn on the charm. I open my eyes wider. I pray that she’ll take the bait. She doesn’t even look.

“That’s just your thing, you know? Everyone has a thing they do with their barista. This is yours. Just go.”

“And Basilton isn’t even his name!” I’m almost shouting. I should probably be a bit quieter. “It’s his middle name. The professor called out his whole name in class, it was like an entire sentence. His name is basically Tyrannosaurus, Penny. Tyrannosaurus.”

 

 **Baz**  

They have absolutely no fucking idea I can hear them. 

 

 **Simon**  

“Simon, this is absurd. I’m not doing your work for you.” Penny doesn’t mention that she’s busy doing just that, because I made a mess of the supply forms last week. I appreciate that she doesn’t go for the low blow. 

“Fine,” I say dejectedly. “I’ll do it.”

The tone of defeat is what finally gets Penny to crack. 

“Simon, why does he bother you so much?”

That’s all the invitation I need.

“He’s just so creepy! He comes in — always alone — every day and orders that disgusting custom drink—“

“Oh, I think it’s rather good,” Penny interrupts.

“Yeah, every now and then, sure,” I concede. I’m still flustered. I know he’s standing out there. I guess I’ve kind of been making him wait for a long time. It’s a bit rude. I should probably just go out there and deal with it. Especially if I was wrong. What if it’s not him?

“I should just go take his order, shouldn’t I?”

Penny nods, she’s not looking at me again. 

“That would probably be a wise idea, yes.”

I peer around the corner.

Nope. It’s definitely him. He sneers the moment I step out from the back office. Actually sneers. I’ve never seen someone do this before, but he’s got it down to an absolute art. 

I shuffle to the register, my head down, and grab a medium cup from the stack. I won’t fight with him today. I won’t ruin this good day. I look up to give him one curt nod, then begin writing his order on the cup.

“Usual then?”

 

**Baz**

He’s already written my order before asking what I want. It  _is_  what I want. But I hate the presumptuousness of it. I dislike being predictable. Not to mention I just heard him call it disgusting. Twice.

“Usual then?” he asks. He speaks like a street rat, slurring his words together into some unintelligible mess of  _uzalen_? 

“No.” My voice is cold and clipped. Good. “I’ll have a large black coffee today.”

I’ve surprised him. You can see every expression on his stupid face, and right now he looks confused. His hands stop in the middle of ringing me up and he stares at me, his mouth open.

“What?”

It comes out low and sluggish.  _Wat_?

“A large black coffee,” I repeat. 

He’s squinting at me now, his blue eyes narrowing into a look of suspicion. He thinks I’m up to something. (I guess I am.)

He tosses the cup he had been holding and picks up a new one.

“Cutting back on sugar, eh? Good on you mate, got to dodge those root canals,” he says. Hearing him speak is like listening to the murder of the English tongue. I sneer at him again. I give him my best one, the one that reveals my teeth, so he can see them. I don’t like to brag, but they’re perfectly white. I know they look shockingly bright against my dark skin. Okay, maybe I do like to brag.

He’s staring at me. He’s waiting for me to respond. I stare back. He expects us to fight. So I’ll refuse to engage. It will throw him. 

He’s still staring, and a flush is working up the tawny skin and moles of his neck and travelling up to his cheeks, where it meets his ridiculous mess of freckles. My silence is unnerving him.

“Is that… “ he stops. He moves his hand as if to pull it through the craze of curls on the top of his head but then he stops, and his hand is just hanging in midair. He looks like a gorgeous idiot. “Is that all?”

I don’t know if he’s talking about my order or the conversation. I just nod. 

He squints at me again like I’ve just upended his entire world. (God, I wish.)

“You sure you don’t want your mocha?”

“Yes,” I say again. I’ve pulled my hand out of my pocket to tap my fingers impatiently against the wood of the counter. He’s staring at them. I tap them louder. 

“Yes you want your mocha, or yes you’re sure you don’t want your mocha?”

This has quickly turned the corner from amusing to fucking excruciating. I would say there’s no way he could possibly be this thick, but he’s outrageously good looking, and brains and beauty rarely go together. Unless you’re me.

“Just give me the damn coffee, Snow,” I snap. I see his eyes go wide. I hadn’t meant to let on that I know his name. Fuck.

Simon

“How do you know my name?” The question is out before I realise it. Sometimes I hate that I say exactly what I think. 

He’s glaring at me now, so much more intensely than he ever has before. I thought I’d earned his best glare the day I made him insert his chip-pin card ten times in a row because I kept accidentally cancelling his order, but that had nothing on the full-bodied look of hatred I’m getting now.

“We have a class together,” he says slowly, like I’m an idiot. 

“Oh. Right.”

I should have thought of that to begin with. That’s how I know his name — his whole name, his whole posh, prehistoric name. He only ever gives his name as “Baz” when he comes into the cafe, and when the professor rattled off that whole mouthful I almost had to clamp my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing. 

I’m surprised he realised I’m in that seminar though. I noticed him the second he walked in on the first day of term, but I sat in the back and he never acknowledged me, so I guess I just kind of assumed he hadn’t noticed.

He’s still tapping his fingers on the counter in front of me. They’re unnaturally long and slender. But not in a creepy way. In like, an outrageously elegant way. Who has fingers like that? I can’t help but look at my own hands as I punch his new order into the system. They’re pretty stumpy. Even my hands have freckles on them. It’s a bit mad, actually. I always look like someone has sprinkled a bit of dirt over me.

“Alright, so, right, that will be £1.50 then.” His fingers stop drumming long enough to fish out a handful of coins and slide them across the counter. 

“Thanks, right,” I say as I slide them into the register. It closes with a thud, but he’s still standing there like a complete tosser, his hands in his pitch black jacket. He’s still staring. 

“My coffee,” he says again, tilting his head toward the cup. I feel myself go bright red again. Fuck. Right. The coffee.

 

**Baz**

“So, you ready for that presentation on Monday then?” he asks cheerily as he fills my new cup. Why is he making conversation about school suddenly? And especially about that ridiculous class.

I’m actually a bit embarrassed to even be in it. It’s one of those first year seminars where they make you learn how to write essays and make powerpoints and work as a team. I didn’t take it my first year because I thought it was excessively stupid, and I was fairly sure I would be able to get out of it. Which didn’t work out exactly how I thought, as I am now surrounded by first years. 

When Snow dragged himself in (late) that first day, I would have assumed he was a first year as well, if it weren’t for the fact that he’s been working in this cafe for at least two years, and he’d been in an upper-level class with me last year. (Statistics.) (I’m fairly sure that Bunce girl did all his work for him). So Snow and I are the only non-first years in the class, and it’s all a bit humiliating.

“Yes. I’m prepared,” I say as he puts on the lid. “For the presentation tomorrow.” I see him freeze. Panic flares around him as his blue eyes go wide, and his mouth opens a bit. He’s an absolute moron, and he believes my lie completely.

I can’t contain my smirk. He sees it, and it seems to piss him off because his shoulders hunch and he juts out his chin when he shoves my coffee at me. (Christ, even his hands have freckles.) (He always looks like someone has just sprinkled cinnamon on him.)

I glance at the cup before I raise it to my lips, and one eyebrow goes up when I see what ridiculous insult he’s written on the cup today. 

“Tosser?” I ask breezily, shaking my head. “Not your best, Snow.”

I wait till I’m out of the cafe and well out of sight of the windows before I throw it away. I hate black coffee.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t want to look at the cup. If it just says “Baz” I think I might absolutely lose it. This is our thing. I don’t know what I’ll do if we lose our thing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr at basic_banshee -- https://bit.ly/2ufVENJ  
> Inspired by this beautiful artwork -- https://bit.ly/2pBY03T

**Simon**

“Simon, he’s here!” Penny bursts into the alley behind the cafe where I’m trying to take my break. “He’s here!” 

I knew she knew what I was talking about.

“So? He’s here everyday,” I say, echoing her words back to her. I’m in an absolutely shit mood, because I stayed up late last night to do my presentation, only to get to class this morning and realise that it actually is due on Monday, like I thought. I turned around to glare at him, and I swear to God I saw him smirk. 

“He has a friend with him,” she says, her eyes wide. “You absolutely will not believe this.” She’s hiding something from me, I know it, but I’m on my feet already. Only because I’m curious what kind of person would be friends with a ten foot-tall asshole. I trail Penny back inside, but I don’t want to go to the register. I’m still on my break anyway, and I’m absolutely not going to waste my well deserved break on serving that shithead. 

He’s there alright, same time as everyday (seriously, who is that punctual?) leaning against the counter while he talks to someone. I can’t see who they are because he’s too damn tall, but it looks like it might be a girl. Blimey, does Baz have a girlfriend?

He doesn’t even turn when Penny steps up to the counter, and it looks like they’re going to just keep ignoring her until the girl glances around him and sees me. Oh, shit.

“Hi Simon!” Agatha chirps, stepping out from beside Baz. She looks beautiful. I mean, she always does, that’s pretty much her main defining characteristic, which would be pretty shallow of me to say if it weren’t true. Everything about her is beautiful, from the way she speaks to the way she looks. I think her thoughts are even beautiful, probably. Not that I know many of them. She didn’t talk to me that much when we dated. 

But more importantly, why the hell is she talking to Baz?

“Hey Aggie,” I say cautiously. I smile at her — because really, she’s the first person I met here, and she’s still my friend, I’m not going to freeze her out — but I go back to pretending to stack cups while Penny takes their orders.

Baz gets his cavity-inducing mocha again, I notice, and I scrawl his insult and order on the cup next to me as he pays Penny for his drink. He’s always perfectly nice when he talks to her. And he’s being pretty fucking friendly to Aggie right now, so I guess it’s just me he’s a dick to. Brilliant. 

I try to eavesdrop a bit as I make their drinks, and it sounds like they’re talking about a club. Are they in an extracurricular together? Then Aggie mentions horses and I realise she doesn’t mean a university club, she means a posh rich person club. That explains it then. I’ve always figured Baz is posh — he’s got to be, with his tailored clothes and stupid names — and Aggie is probably the richest person I know. All rich people knowing each other just sort of makes sense.

“Please? This isn’t the kind of thing someone goes to by themselves. It would mean a lot to me,” Aggie says. I stiffen a bit. Is she asking him out? Or are they already dating? Not that I care. We broke up two years ago, and it was absolutely the right idea. We’re just friends now, and honestly I like it better because being friends with Agatha is a hell of a lot less stressful than dating her. 

But she can’t be dating Baz. 

I mean, his name is basically Tyrannosaurus. He looks like a vampire, but like, a fit Egyptian-looking one. Not that vampires can’t be Egyptian. I think that’s what he is. I don’t really know. But yeah. He can’t be her type. Because of the vampire thing. Not the Egyptian thing. That’s actually a pretty good look on him.

“I’ll consider it,” Baz says stiffly. He looks a bit uncomfortable. I guess he’s not into Aggie. How mental is that? How can anyone not be into Aggie?

“Baz, have you met him? He’s adorable,” Agatha laughs. I pause before putting the syrup in Baz’s mocha. Wait. Does Agatha have a new boyfriend? Is that who they’re talking about?

“He’s not my type. I don’t like men with dark hair.”

What?

“Come on, Baz. When was the last time you were on a date?” 

Baz is silent, and I can only see his back but I’m fairly sure he’s flaying Agatha alive with his eyes. His shoulders are hunched in an evisceration sort of way.

“If you’re not interested in him, I can name at least five others. There’s loads of good men on this campus. You just need to put yourself out there more,” Aggie says.

 

**Baz**

I’d like to skin Wellbelove. 

I didn’t intend to come in with her for a chat, but she caught me when I was walking down campus, and she can be obnoxiously persistent when she puts her mind to it. I was going to shake her off when we got to the cafe. And then I remembered what Snow had said yesterday — “He comes in, always alone” — and I thought I’d further disrupt his world view, and invited Agatha to join me.

I immediately regret it.

When she started putting the press on me to bring a date to her mother’s ridiculous charity event I figured I could shut her down again, but I’ve forgotten that there’s no real way to constrain Agatha, and so here she is, dressing me down about finding a bloke in the middle of the cafe while Snow is clearly eavesdropping.

I hear a crash and turn around to see the remains of my mocha splashed all over the counter and dripping off of a bright red Snow. I want to kill her.

“Are you incompetent?” I snarl at him. It’s a bad insult. It’s not remotely well thought out, but I’m embarrassed and I’m not on the top of my game. I know Wellbelove didn’t mean to out me, and I’m not embarrassed about who I am, but I desperately wish she hadn’t. But I can’t blame her. She has no idea that I’ve been obsessing over this fucking barista for a year.

I used to absolutely hate him. He sat in the back of my Statistics class and was constantly talking and was always late, and I honestly don’t even know what he was doing in the class. He was so far out of his depth.

Then one day after class I stopped into this stupid cafe, even though I usually avoid the places on campus because they’re shit, and realised that Simon fucking Snow, the boy who was ruining my attention in Statistics, was the barista here, of course. Walking him through my order was more difficult than watching him try to use a calculator. When I went to pick up my coffee (he did actually make it correctly, I was a bit surprised) it looked like he had written “Bastard” in his awful chicken scratch font. 

“Is this a joke?” I snarled at him. His mouth fell open and he stared at me in surprise. 

“What?” he had said stupidly. It’s his default response. He says it to everything. “Snow, are you present?” “ _What?_ ” “Today we have a test.” “ _What?_ ” “You’re a fucking moron.” “ _What?_ ”

I showed him my cup. 

“Does ‘Baz’ really sound like ‘Bastard’ to you, you complete halfwit?” I snarled back at him. I watched the flush creep up his neck and he looked like he was going to go off on me right then, and the sudden rise of his anger was absolutely delightful.

“If I wanted to call you a bastard, I’d say it to your face,” he shot back through gritted teeth. It was not his best comeback. 

“Work on your handwriting, this looks like a child wrote it,” I said, and then stormed out. I told myself I wouldn’t go back there again, even if the coffee was perfect, and I didn’t. For about two weeks. I was late to work and it was raining and I needed coffee. So I snarled my way through my order, grabbed the cup from his hands, and was almost to work before I noticed the neat, blocky, red letters on the side that read “Baztard.”

I was hooked. (Because I’m deranged.) (Ask anyone.)

And now he’s standing there, covered in my mocha, gaping at me like I’m a tall, gorgeous, gay freak.

 

**Simon**

I don’t know why I spilled the coffee. I get a bit clumsy when I’m focusing on things, and I was admittedly focusing pretty intently on Baz and Aggie’s conversation, and then my hand just sort of jerked, and now I’m wearing this revolting drink.

I don’t even know what he just hissed at me, I’m so embarrassed that my blood is roaring in my ears and I can’t really hear anything else, but I can see his face and I know he’s being a complete shithead to me. 

So what if he’s gay? He’s still a shithead. You can be gay and a shithead. I grab a fresh cup, and that’s what I write out. I’d just put “git” on the last one, because I didn’t want Aggie to see me write anything too nasty, but I’ll put “shithead” on this one because I think it’s got a better ring to it. 

I hesitate for a second though. Should I still call him a shithead? Will it seem like I’m just being an ass because I just found out he’s gay? But I’m not. I’m not being an ass. This is just our thing. 

And I don’t want him to think I’m treating him any differently because I know. That would be kind of a shit move. So shithead it is. I write it carefully. (I always write carefully on his cups.) (He’s such a dick about handwriting.) 

I place his drink on the counter without meeting his eyes and then head quickly to the back to clean up. I’m sticky and I smell like pumpkin.

 

**Baz**

He puts the cup down and then practically runs away. He doesn’t stay long enough for me to see what’s written on it. 

This is my favourite part, when I look at what pathetic insult he’s chosen and then I sneer and insult it. He wrote something on the cup when I first ordered, I saw it. But then he spilled it, after Agatha outed me, and now I’m scared to see what he wrote when he remade the drink. 

I don’t think he’ll think badly of me now. He’s too nice for that. I know he’s a nice guy. He’s a good guy. I’ve see him on campus. He smiles and talks to everyone. He’s that person who helps total strangers carry heavy things. If someone drops something, he chases them down and returns it. Now that he knows, he’s so fucking nice, he probably won’t insult me.

I don’t want to look at the cup. If it just says “Baz” I think I might lose it. This is our thing. I don’t know what I’ll do if we lose our thing.

The cup is just sitting there, staring at me. This is ridiculous. I’m a grown man. It’s a fucking coffee cup. I pick it up hesitantly and turn it, slowly, so I can see what he scrawled on it. 

Shithead. 

I can feel myself grinning, I can’t even help it. I’ve never been so happy to be a shithead.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I hear his breath catch when he finally sees me. His breath. He literally gasped. I’m so beautiful and regal I took his fucking breath away.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr at basic_banshee -- https://bit.ly/2ufVENJ  
> Inspired by this beautiful artwork -- https://bit.ly/2pBY03T

**Baz**

Holy shit, he’s here.

He’s standing in the doorway, shaking rain out of his hair and staring around at the room in wonder, like he’s never seen a bookstore before. Like it’s a delight.

I can’t believe I almost didn’t see him. I didn’t even look up when the door opened, I just kept working on my essay, and then I glanced up on a whim, and there he is. 

I look down. He hasn’t noticed me. I don’t want him to catch me staring, so I force myself back into the exact position I was in when he entered. Distracted, absorbed, absolutely not entirely tuned in to him.

I hear his breath catch when he finally sees me. His breath. He literally gasped. I’m so beautiful and regal I took his fucking breath away.

Or, more likely, I scared the shit out of him.

(I’m honestly fine with either scenario.)

I keep my face completely blank when I look up again. I don’t know what expression he would expect to find there (surprise? Anger? Disbelief? Happiness?) but I don’t want him to find any. 

He’s still standing in the doorway like a moron. 

“Can I help you?”

My tone is forcibly cool and clipped, and he nods awkwardly and shuffles over to the counter where I’m sitting. He’s still staring around at the room.

“I didn’t know you worked,” he says. There’s a long silence and then he adds, “here.”

He didn’t think I worked because I’m rich. That’s cute. 

“Well, I do,” I answer. He’s stopped staring around the room and is now staring at the counter that my laptop and I are currently leaning on. I follow the direction of his eyes, attempting to work out what’s caught his attention, and—

Fuck. He’s seen them.

It never occurred to me that Snow would walk into a fucking bookstore of all places, so I never thought about what would happen if he caught me. It was never even a dim possibility in my mind, but here he is, at my work, staring at my fucking coffee cup collection.

Today’s is here — there’s still coffee in it, and it says “fuck face”. He’s used it before but I don’t mind. It’s one of my favourites. Partly because of the alliteration, and partly because I love the mental image.

But just next to it is the cup that says “goblin.” It’s my absolute favourite cup because it was so unexpected. I actually laughed when I saw it, I didn’t even have a cutting remark for him that day. I’ve got some pens shoved into it so that no one will mistake it for rubbish, and next to it is another cup reading “creepy vampire” which holds some paper clips. I suppose I just like the idea of Simon Snow thinking of me as some mythical beast.

“What brings you in?” I ask, attempting to pull his attention from the cups. My voice is actually nice. Shit.

 

**Simon**

I was not expecting him to be here. 

I’m not used to seeing him outside of the cafe or class much. In the cafe he’s all snarling and sneering, and in class he’s always either complete tuned in to the lecture or off in his own world.

I see him on campus sometimes, but he’s always got headphones in and walks like he’s off to kill a man. I saw him walking back from football practice once though, and that was weird, because he was all kitted out and sweaty and I’d never seen him look that relaxed before.

It makes sense that he’s a footballer, I guess. He’s got that kind of build, you know? I was on the phone, just loitreing in the parking lot waiting for Penny to meet me when I saw him, and I kind of ducked behind a tree, which makes me sound sort of creepy I suppose. But he had his hair up and he was walking slowly and he looked so calm that I just didn’t believe it was actually him for a bit.

He looks calm now, but it’s different, it’s like a controlled calm. He was leaning against the counter typing something into his laptop and that stupid long hair of his was in his face when I came in, before he looked up, nonplussed. And he’s wearing a T-shirt. Literally just a black T-shirt, the same kind I’m wearing under my jumper, but he’s one of those assholes who makes a plain T-shirt look fucking good, because he’s so tall and fit. The edge of one of the sleeves is curled up a bit, and it’s outlining one of the muscles on his upper arm, which is flexed a little because that’s the arm he’s leaning on and—

Yeah anyway, like I said, it’s weird.

As if he can read my mind I watch him reach to the desk behind him, the one where some of his old coffee cups are being used for office supplies, with my embarrassing fucking insults displayed for all the world to see, and he grabs a cardigan. He pulls it on, covering up his arms and I’m almost panicking because I seriously think he was reading my mind, but then I notice the small space heater that’s chugging away next to his laptop, and I realise he’s just cold. Baz is cold. How fucking mundane.

“I’m looking for a book for my friend’s birthday,” I spit out finally. “Penny. Bunce. Penny Bunce.”

“What kind of books does she like?” he asks slowly. I can’t believe I’m asking him for a book recommendation. What kind of books does a guy like him even read?

“Uh, well, everything. She reads loads, she likes nonfiction,” I start to babble, then I stop and sigh. “Honestly, no idea. She hates every book I recommend to her.”

I swear I see the corners of his mouth tick up. I can’t believe I’m having a civil conversation with him. 

“What are Bunce‘s interests, then? In general.”

“Uh,” I say. I can’t tell him that Penny likes everything, because that’s not true. But she’s interested in everything, to some degree. “She’s into feminism. Science. Cannibalism.”

I regret saying that last one, that one’s weird. But it’s true. She is into cannibalism. This week at least. Reading about it, that is. Not, you know, doing it.

Baz doesn’t seem too surprised by this list at all though, and he just nods. 

“Follow me,” he says, pushing back from the counter and coming around to stand next to me. I’m not sure if he’s ever actually stood next to me before, and I don’t know why I’m thinking that, but I follow him as he walks up the short stairs at the edge of the room that lead to the nonfiction section. He walks through the shelves without even looking, pulling books out of their carefully arranged places, and returns to me with four.

“This is a nonfiction memoir about feminism,” he says, handing me a bright pink book with a fruit on the cover that looks vaguely inappropriate. I try not to flush. “Here is a new biography about Marie Curie.” He places that in my hands as well. “This is by a mortician who looks humourously at how other cultures celebrate and handle death,” he puts a huge black book in my hands, “and if you don’t like those, here is a special edition cover of Sylvia Plath.”

I stare at the books in my hands. Literally all of them are perfect for Penny. How did he do this so fast? 

“Oh, thanks, these are…perfect,” I stutter. “Have you read any of them?”

He nods. 

“Just the Plath and the one about death.”

“That’s kind of redundant, don’t you think?” I say. The joke slips out before I realise it, and I glance at him to see his reaction. He doesn’t laugh. His face hasn’t even moved.

“Let’s go with the death one, then,” I say quickly, holding up the large black book.

“Good choice. There’s cannibalism in it,” he says dryly, taking the books from my hands. He quickly replaces three of them, then heads directly to the counter. He doesn’t even look back to see if I’m following.

 

**Baz**

Simon fucking Snow just made a Sylvia Plath joke. 

Simon Snow reads.

This information has disturbed me in a way I didn’t think was possible. If he told me he had killed a dragon I would probably process that more easily than I am currently processing the idea of Simon Snow reading Sylvia Plath.

He trails me back to the counter and looks around impatiently while I fill in the receipt slip and start to import it into our ancient system. I glance back down as he taps a freckled hand on my school book.

“What are you studying for?” he asks. He’s actually serious. What the fuck is this day?

“Economics,” I say shortly. He nods.

“Ah, yeah, that makes sense.”

Does it? Do I seem like the kind of guy who becomes an economist? I guess that’s kind of a compliment, of sorts. 

“You?” I ask, because it’s polite, and also because I actually do want to know what concentration someone as ridiculous as him would choose. 

“Oh, er, English,” he says. 

English. The boy who can’t fucking speak properly is studying English. Of course. 

“Why did you choose that?” My question comes out a bit harsh, which I’m relieved for, because this interaction has been entirely too cordial.

My tone seems to have helped Snow find steady footing again though, because suddenly he grins at me, and it’s stunning. It’s the same smile I got the day my cup read “world’s tallest twat”. I could tell he was truly proud of that one. His smile takes up his whole face, pushing his ruddy cheeks up and his teeth show and it’s like drowning in the sun.

“I dunno. It’s funny, right? I guess it just seems like the best option, which is mad considering I’m a bit shit with words.”

Suddenly the smile is gone, and a cloud passes over his face, like he’s gone too far and said something he didn’t intend to. 

I don’t answer, and instead focus on running his card through the machine and fill in the receipt. This interaction has been revolutionary; I don’t want to spook him with too much kindness.

 

**Simon**

He puts the receipt in the book and slides it toward me without even looking at me. He’s completely checked out of this conversation. Is that what this is? It has to be. We’ve exchanged multiple words, and there have been no insults. It’s making me itch.

I’m actually happy that he sounds so disinterested when he tells me he hopes Bunce enjoys the book. It’s normal. It’s nasty. I cling to it.

I grab the book and give him a quick nod before I leave the store. It’s huge. I wish I had been able to wander around it a bit. Penny doesn’t have patience with me when we go book shopping, I never just get to meander through, so I was actually looking forward to doing that today. I’m not sure I would have though, once I saw Baz. I can’t imagine just knocking around the store, knowing that he’s there and can see me. 

I’m three streets away when I look back at the book and see the receipt sticking out of it. I can see the top of his handwriting. It’s fucking perfect. No wonder he’s such a dick about mine.

I pull out the receipt to glare at his handwriting some more when I notice the “customer name” section. I’ve never seen it filled out on a handwritten receipt before, but there it is, in perfect, elegant letters, filled out.

“Illiterate pissant.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s loaded it down with lemon and honey. It’s heavenly. I’d do anything for him in this moment. (I’d do anything for him.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr at basic_banshee -- https://bit.ly/2ufVENJ  
> Inspired by this beautiful artwork -- https://bit.ly/2pBY03T

**Simon**

He’s not here.

It’s half past, and he’s always in by now. I should have expected this after he wasn’t in class this morning. I keep expecting him to waltz in, sneer at me, and then rip my throat out with his teeth when I tell him about this morning. He’s going to kill me. This is how I’ll go. Drowned in pumpkin mocha breve at the hands of Basilton Grimm-Pitch.

Maybe the professor emailed him. Maybe he already knows, and that’s why he’s not here. Or maybe he dropped the class.

“Or maybe he’s sick,” Penny says. She’s sitting on the counter with the book I gave her in her lap. (This is such a hygiene hazard, but I don’t say anything because she’s technically in charge.) She’s starting to get short with me, which is fair because I am being a bit stroppy.

“He never gets sick, Pen.” I grab another scone. It’s barely even warm anymore, but I tear into it anyway.

“Simon, you’re stress eating.”

“No I’m not.” The crumbs fly out of my mouth as I speak.

Penny sighs deeply and puts the book down.

“Why does this bother you so much? Why does he bother you so much?”

“He doesn’t bother me,” I say, but Penny gives me a mum look.

“If he’s here, you’re complaining about his presence. If he’s gone, you think he’s plotting something. For Heaven’s sake, you keep a list of insults for him on your phone.”

“That’s only because it’s hard to think up new ones and I want to write them down when inspiration hits!” I protest. But she’s right. “He’s just such a shit.”

Penny tilts her head and pushes a strand of curly blue hair behind her ear. 

“You had a nice experience with him at his work, didn’t you? He helped you pick a great present. I think you’re focusing on how he’ll react to the class thing so that you don’t have to think about something else.”

“Something else?” I ask. “What do you mean ‘something else’?”

Penny fixes me with that look, and my stomach drops. It’s the ultimate mum look, the one that comes right before she unloads a heavy, awkward fucking truth on you. She almost looks like she pities me, which means whatever she’s about to say is going to be especially bad, when I hear the door open and the sound of rain gets louder.

It’s Baz.

And he looks like shit.

His hair is unbrushed and up in a haphazard bun, and he’s wearing the largest cable knit sweater I’ve ever seen and….

Joggers. 

Baz is wearing joggers.

Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch is wearing joggers.

Fuck they look good.

I know that I’m grinning when he walks up, and I try to dial it back. He looks like hell. Penny was right. He’s clearly sick. He shouldn’t even be here. Why is he here? He should be in bed.

I reach for a cup to write his usual on it, but he shakes his head. He doesn’t even sneer.

“Tea,” he says. His voice is a bit hoarse, and he doesn’t enunciate like he usually does. 

He must be actively dying if he’s standing here, ordering tea, not even snarling. In joggers.

“You okay mate?”

The question slips out before I realise I’ve voiced concern. I wait for the sneer but his eyes are so heavy that he just gives me a weak glare. 

“Fine.”

He goes to push coins at me but I shake my head.

“No, on the house.” 

He must be using all the energy he has left to sneer at me now, and it lifts my spirits a bit.

“I’m not dying, I don’t need charity,” he spits.

“It’s not charity, I’m just not touching anything you’ve touched. I don’t know what the hell you’ve got,” I snipe back. “Why are you even up? You look like you’re going to infect the whole campus.”

“I have work,” he snarls. He looks like he’s ready to drop.

I try to raise my eyebrow like he does, but both my eyebrows go up together and I’m pretty sure I just look surprised.

“You skipped class, though,” I say tentatively. 

“I don’t care about that class.” 

 

**Baz**

It’s half a lie. I care about all my classes, but I care about that one the least. I would never go, if it weren’t for my overachieving streak. And Snow. But I can still walk, I’m not too sick to go to work, but I’m willing to indulge myself and skip that ridiculous waste of credits, this one time. Nothing ever happens in that class.

Snow is making my tea, and he looks nervous, opening and closing his mouth like he’s going to say something, and then decides against it. I must look worse than I think because he’s being suspiciously nice to me. I want to dissolve into the floor and die of shame.

“Use your words, Snow,” I snap. Well, I try to snap. My voice comes out hoarse. I hold back a wince.

He looks agitated when he hands me my tea, and I grab at it expectantly. I’m fucking freezing, and it’s delightfully warm against my hands. I take a tentative sip. He’s loaded it down with lemon and honey. It’s heavenly. I’d do anything for him in this moment. (I’d do anything for him.)

“So, today in class,” he starts, then stops. Oh God. Where is this going?

“Right, so, right. In class we got our midterm project, which we’re supposed to do with a partner. And I sort of wasn’t paying attention when we were pairing up, so I don’t have a partner. And you weren’t there. So,” Snow is actually stammering. “Yeah, so I told the professor we’re together. We’d partner together. For the project.”

There’s a warmth spreading through me, which has to be the tea and not the fact that Snow just said we’re together.

Oh who am I fucking kidding, it’s entirely about Snow.

He’s not looking at me. I take another slow sip of the tea in my hand. Fuck that feels good. 

“Alright then,” I respond. He blinks. I’ve completely thrown him.

“Yeah?” He says tentatively. I nod. His smile is back, the one he blinded me with when I first walked in.

“Great. We can sort it out in class, then,” he says. Then he squints. “You know, you should really go home. You look like shit.”

I don’t feel like shit, not anymore, but I glare back.

“Go fuck yourself,” I tell him. I slam the coins he refused back on the counter and turn to go.

“Wait!” He calls. I pause and turn. He looks unsure.

“Aren’t you going to read the cup?”

I can tell he regrets saying it the minute the words leave his mouth, because he flushed a bright red. The Bunce girl has been sitting on the counter behind him during our entire exchange, and she finally looks up and gives him the most condescending, pitying look. It’s truly a work of art.

I look down at the cup, and I hate myself for the small tug in my stomach at his awful writing.

“You spelt typhoid wrong.”

 

**Simon**

I watch him leave. He walks like every inch of his body hurts, so his movements are slower and more pronounced than usual, and he stands to the side, impatiently waiting, favouring one hip while he waits for another customer to enter.

His bum looks amazing in those joggers.

Oh. Fuck.

I turn to Penny, my eyes wide, and she’s got this look of pure condescending pity on her face, and I suddenly know what that heavy, awkward truth was going to be.

Oh fuck. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’d never really thought about what a date with Baz might be like, and while this is definitely not what I would have assumed, this is exactly what I would want.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr at basic_banshee -- https://bit.ly/2ufVENJ  
> Inspired by this beautiful artwork -- https://bit.ly/2pBY03T

**Baz**

“Simon, he’s here!”

Bunce is standing in the doorway in front of me and I swear her hair is a different colour than it was two days ago. I can’t see inside the flat because she’s blocking it, and her hands on one hip as she leans against the door. Her eyes are trained on me, going over my frame carefully as if she’s searching me for weapons.

“Is that food?” she asks curiously, eyeing the plastic bag in my hand. I nod.

“Smart man,” she grins, and steps back to grant me access.

Their flat is small but almost impossibly cosy, with a couch and overstuffed chairs pushed into the corner and almost every spare spot littered with books. Snow is on the couch in the corner, his eyes locked on to the TV, where it looks like he’s watching some baking show — or so I assume, until I see him glance sideways at me and then quickly glance back when I catch him.

I drop the food on their kitchen counter and shrug out of my coat. The movement is more difficult than I’d like to admit.

“What’s that?” Snow asks. He’s trying to pretend that he’s not interested.

“Take away,” I respond. “I figured we’d need fuel. There’s enough for you as well, Bunce.”

I shift uncomfortably from my kind gesture. Snow’s eyes are wide, and he’s staring between me and the bag with an expression of pure delight.

I’d expected some kind of reaction — I know Snow loves food, he spends all of class shoving snacks in his face — but I didn’t expect this level of adoration.

“Where are we setting up then?” I say stiffly. I’m deeply uncomfortable. I want to get this going, but this is Snow’s flat. He’s in charge. Normally that sentence would thrill me, but not tonight. I want to kill him. I want to destroy this PowerPoint. I want to burn this entire fucking project to the ground. I don’t even care that I’m here, with Snow, on a Friday night. I’m miserable and nauseated. And my nose is stuffed up.

“Oh, er,” he says. My eyes flick in annoyance. He hasn’t thought this through. 

“I’m going to Agatha’s,” Bunce announces. “The table is yours.” She quickly snaps her laptop closed and gathers up the mess of papers and books spread out in front of it. Suddenly my pulse ticks up. I wasn’t prepared to be alone in Snow’s flat with him. 

She’s out the door before Snow or I have a chance to say anything, and then, suddenly, we’re alone.

Snow is just staring at me. 

I suppose I’ll have to take charge, then.

I drop my bag, pull out my computer, and settle myself at the table. I pull up the ridiculous presentation we’re supposed to be working on, and turn to him.

“I’ve made the basic structure, and done the bibliography. All we really need to do is organise the slides and compile our research together.”

**Simon**

He showed up with takeaway.

I’d never really thought about what a date with Baz might be like, and while this is definitely not what I would have assumed, this is exactly what I would want.

Not that this is a date. We’re studying. It’s definitely not a date.

If this were a fantasy date, he’d be wearing those joggers. I bet he wears the joggers at home.

This is mental. I’ve got to snap out of this. It’s difficult though; ever since I caught myself admiring Baz, he’s all I can think about. I guess it’s not that different from before. I definitely thought about him a lot. I’d think about his hair that time he had it half up and half down, or how his eyes were the exact colour of a rainy day. 

But now I keep thinking about wanting to to run my hand through his hair. And I think I want to kiss him. That’s definitely new.

I’ve got to stop. He’s over there, half dead, pushing through to get our bloody project done, whilst I’m here, objectifying him. I hate this. I hate him. This is weird. He looks like shit, like he’s going to drop dead at any minute.

**Baz**

This was a bad idea.

I still feel too sick to take control of the situation. I shouldn’t have agreed to come here. I should have just told him to do his part and send it to me.

At least I managed proper trousers today. 

I still can’t believe I went out in those joggers. I never wear them. But I didn’t have the strength to button my real trousers, and when you’re that sick, you don’t have much capacity for self respect. 

I feel well enough to care today, but I almost wore them again. I spent all day sleeping in the damn things, and I was exhausted when my alarm went off, reminding me that I was to meet Snow, and the idea of putting on real clothing suddenly seemed impossible. And somewhere, in the back of my mind, was that fever-induced hallucination from the other day, wherein I was positive that Snow had checked out my backside.

I wish I had worn the joggers.

**Simon**

I’ve got to stop staring at him. I have to look absolutely mad. 

I grab my own laptop from the spot on the couch next to me and move to the table. I set up across from him and eye the takeaway. Would it be rude to crack into it first?

He’s already seated and typing away at his laptop, so I decide to go for it. Food calms me. 

“So why are you in this class?” I ask in between shoving three chips in my mouth. He doesn’t even look at me.

“Why are you?” he snaps back. I think he’s tired. He’s not as sharp today, and there are dark circles underneath his eyes.

I shrug.

“No one told me I had to take it first year. I sort of just found out.”

“Your advisor didn’t tell you about the mandatory first year seminar?” 

I shake my head.

“Nah, I ‘spose he had a lot on his mind at the time. Anyway, I only found out when Penny was talking to her younger sister about it, and I realised I hadn’t taken something like that, so, you know, here we are.”

“Your advisor had so much on his mind that he couldn’t do his literal job of telling you what classes you needed to take?”

Baz seems to be hung up on this point. His lip curls up. 

“Incompetent,” he mutters, still looking at his computer. “Who’s your advisor?”

“Professor Mage.”

Baz stops typing and turns to me. He looks seriously pissed.

“Mage? The dean? The dean of the college was too busy to tell you what classes to take.” He’s practically crackling with derision. “Typical. You should have put in for a transfer.”

My hackles go up. Yeah, I was pretty pissed at Mage for forgetting that detail — and I sometimes wonder if there’s anything else about my degree he’s forgotten to tell me — but I feel a bit protective of him. He’s really gone out on a limb for me. 

“Why would I do that? I like Mage. He’s done a lot for me.”

“Like almost cause you to delay your degree?” Baz spits out.

“No, he sponsored my application because I didn’t know any alumni.”

Baz’s fingers have frozen above his keyboard now, and he turns to stare at me.

My stomach drops.

**Baz**

Snow is the charity case.

I don’t know how I never put this together before. Now that I hear it, it’s obvious. Of course Snow is Mage’s pet project. Who else would be?

Ever since he took over as Dean after my mother’s death, Professor Mage has been on a reform kick. He’s petitioned to lower the graduation requirements to make them less difficult. He’s expanded scholarships, and been on a mission to open up acceptances. And these would be good reforms, if it weren’t for the fact that they were actively devaluing the prestige of the university and destroying the academic excellence that my mother worked hard to achieve.

I’d heard there was a charity case kid in my year, some kid that did not have the grades or scores to get into Watford, who the Mage had picked up in bumfuck London, “sponsored”, and pushed through. 

It was all my father would talk about for a summer, the kid who Mage was determined to push to the top of the class, who would give back to the community, who was going to show how much better Watford would be out of the hands of the wealthy elite.

When my mother was dean, the school was ruled by the elite, I’ll give him that. You needed an alumni connection or some kind of sponsor to get in. But my mother made sure every student deserved to be here based on merit. No one bought their way in.

“Mage sponsored you?” I repeat quietly. Simon shrugs.

“Yeah. He gave me a huge chance. I’m not going to give him grief for forgetting one class.”

“Is that why you’re an English concentration? Because Mage teaches English?”

Simon shrugs again.

“A bit. He suggested it, and it seemed like the most sensible route.”

“So why were you in Statistics last year?”

I can’t help myself, I know I’m interrogating him, but I’m just so unbelievably shocked by this turn of events. Snow is the charity case. The kid who doesn’t deserve to be here.

That isn’t even what pisses me off, honestly. It’s his dedication to Mage.

Professor Mage is a self-important prick who has spent years destroying my mother’s legacy, and Snow is practically licking his boots. Does Snow just do everything he’s told, even when he know it’s not in his best interest? Or does he just hero worship Mage?

And not to mention I’ve now let slip that I remember him from before the cafe, that I remember him from that class. No wonder he struggled in it.

He’s flushing though. His ears are turning red and he’s staring at the table, and he’s getting flustered because he’s starting to sputter.

“I… I had to take maths”

“Why not take the same entry level maths all the Humanities kids take?”

“Because, well, it was full, and—“

“Because Mage told you to.”

“So?”

“Because he wanted you to succeed outside your element and prove you deserve a spot here.”

“What’s wrong with wanting me to succeed?” He shouts. He’s pushed back from the table, and he’s breathing heavily.

**Simon**

This absolute prick. This complete, utter, absolute fucking prick.

I knew his mum was the dean here before; as soon as I heard his name I knew. Mage talks about his mum all the time, about how elitist and classist she was.

Penny thinks Mage is actually a bit sexist and racist, especially when he gets on those rants, but I’ve told her that he just wants to make the school more accessible. He’s not shutting people out, he’s helping people get in.

“So far our great ‘diversity champion’ is a white man who has thus far lowered our acceptance requirements, overloaded student housing, accepted students who can’t keep up, and replaced our one-on-one, analytical, research-heavy, tutor-based classes with huge lecture classes designed to teach kids how to make power points,” Penny snapped back. I know she was just quoting her mum though, because her mum has said the exact same thing.

Penny doesn’t like Mage, and it’s been a bit of a stressor in our relationship, but at least Penny believes in me. Even if he got me in as a test case, I’ve done well. I’ve done really well, even considering when I make a total muck of things. I dig in, and I always get myself out of my messes.

And now here’s fucking Baz, who got in on his name, who doesn’t know shit about me, who’s demeaning that success.

He’s gone quiet again, but his eyes are still burning.

“And did you succeed in Statistics?” He asks quietly. I flush. He knows I didn’t. He watched me flounder all term until Penny helped me squeak by.

“Why did you apply to Watford?” He asks suddenly. I don’t even have a chance to tell him off for making fun of my maths incompetency, because I’m so thrown.

“What?”

“Why Watford?”

“My… I was told to. Someone suggested it to me.”

“Do you always do what you’re told?” He sneers. “Your parents must have been very proud, to find a way to get you in here and then set you off. Did you choose this, or did they decide for you? Have they told you what you’ll be doing after graduation? Has Mage told you?”

I could kill him. My hands are shaking like they haven’t shook in years, and I’m ready to throttle him.

“I applied here because I aged out of the care home and wanted to go to uni, and my social worker said I had great scores and was a good candidate for a scholarship Watford was offering. I don’t know what I’m doing after graduation. I focus on things one step at a time.”

I meant to shout it, but it comes out quiet.

I’m glad I didn’t throttle him, because my even, level voice has shocked him far more than my fists ever could.

**Baz**

I’m an absolute prick. A complete, utter, absolute fucking prick.

**Simon**

He’s still staring at me, his grey eyes wide, and I just need him to say something. 

I see that he feels bad. I can tell, he’s realising he went too far, but then it’s shifting, and I know what’s about to come. I know his face is about to change to pity, and I won’t take pity, not from him.

**Baz**

“I got in here because my mum used to be the dean. I had perfect scores, but even if I didn’t, I would have gotten in.”

I don’t know why I’m saying this. But I feel like I have to do something, say something to show that I know I went too far. It would be better to just apologise, but I don’t know how to do that.

“I didn’t take this class because I thought it was stupid and I assumed I could get an exemption because of who I am, but Mage wouldn’t let me.”

**Simon**

I was not expecting this.

“You’re an elitist prick,” I say.

**Baz**

“Yes I am,” I say slowly. “And you speak like a Neanderthal.”

**Simon**

“Is that supposed to be an apology?” I have no idea what’s happening, but Baz nods.

“Yes, it is.”

“You can’t even say it,” I say. “You can’t even apologise without insulting me.”

**Baz**

“Do you want me to be nice to you? Do you want me to congratulate you on pulling yourself up through hard work, and apologise for making shitty assumptions about your background?”

He nods.

“Yeah, actually, that would be great.”

“I’m not going to apologise for not liking Mage. Sponsorship or no, he’s not doing you any favours by forgetting about your education until he needs to shove you into a difficult position to make him look good.”

“It’s just maths. It’s not like he asked me to go slay a dragon.”

“Simon, he pushed you into a class you had no business being in, which could have severely impacted your grades and kept you from graduating. Do you see me in a creative writing class? No. Because it’s outside of my skill set.”

**Simon**

“I bet you’d be good at it,” I say. It pops out before I can help it. This entire thing has been mental. We were supposed to be working on a project, and instead we shouted at each other about the academic prestige of a fucking university and then I told him I’m a fucking orphan, and now we’re arguing about maths. This is insane. This is so fucking insane.

“What?” He says. He sounds a bit dense. It’s not his usual reply.

I shrug.

“I’m just saying, you’d probably be good at it. You’re good at literally everything else.”

I flush a bit. I didn’t intend to compliment him.

“No I’m not,” he says. I laugh.

“What are you bad at?”

“Being nice.”

I blink. But then I shrug.

“I dunno, you’re pretty nice to me.”

**Baz**

What kind of world did Simon Snow grow up in if he thinks I’m a nice person?

“No, I’m not,” I say slowly. “I’m actually pretty terrible to you. You’re the one who’s nice to me.”

Simon looks stumped. His mouth is hanging open and I want to shove up out of this chair and bite it. I would jump him right this moment, if I wasn’t having a bit of disassociation from my overdose of cold syrup.

“How about we just try being nice to each other, then?” he says. 

And then he smiles. 

And  _he_  kisses  _me_.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’m in his bed, in his clothes, taking comfort from his smell and waiting for him to come home to me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr at basic_banshee -- https://bit.ly/2ufVENJ  
> Inspired by this beautiful artwork -- https://bit.ly/2pBY03T

**Simon**

He’s here.

He’s here in my flat and he’s not kissing me.

I’m kissing him, but he’s just sort of sitting there not moving. He made some kind of noise that sounds like a sigh (a good sigh?) so I push my mouth into his further, I move my chin a bit, but he’s not responding.

This can’t be happening.

I break away. 

I can feel the blood roaring in my ears and I stare at him because I can’t believe I got that so entirely fucking wrong. Burn me alive right now, bury me at sea, I just kissed Baz Pitch and he didn’t kiss me back. 

Of all the immense cock-ups of my life, this must be the biggest one.

“Simon,” he says. I back up until my legs almost hit the couch. 

“Sorry,” I stammer. 

“Simon,” he starts again, and hearing him use my actual name is too much. I feel like I’m going to cry. 

“That was dumb of me,” I say, shaking my head. “Just forget it.”

“Simon,” he’s standing now, coming toward me, and I can’t look him in the eyes. I can’t even look at him. I’m staring at the floor when I see him take my hands, and I feel the shock reverberate through me. My body is on fire and I feel him rub his thumb over my knuckles. He leans forward and presses his forehead to mine and the gentle touch of his skin is too much. I’m seared at the point of contact. My legs feel weak, and I think I’m shaking. He’s taller than me, and he’s leaning down and looking at me, and a strand of his hair is in my face, hanging between us.

“What?” I don’t know what else to say.

“I want to kiss you,” he says. He smiles. “I want to kiss you so fucking badly. But I’m very sick, and I’m high as shit on cough medicine right now, and I think I’m contagious. And this is not at all how I thought this would happen.”

Oh.

I feel myself expand from within, and I can’t stop the smile that’s coming to my face. He does want to kiss me. Baz Pitch wants to kiss me. Baz Grimm-Pitch has thought about kissing me. He has an idea of how he wants to kiss me.

“I don’t care,” I say, leaning my head up and moving toward his lips again, but he steps back and shakes his head. (He’s still holding my hands.) He’s smiling. It looks brilliant on him.

“Yes, but I mind, and if you get sick then I’ll just get reinfected and I’d like to not spend the rest of my life on cold syrup.”

“I don’t mind,” I say again. I can’t stop smiling. I go to kiss him again, but he takes yet another step back.

“Simon, really, I’m sick.”

“You look fine to me. You look great.”

I’m ready to pounce on him, to attack him again and make him understand how thoroughly I don’t mind his congested nose when I see the shadow pass over his face and he falters.

“I feel like I’m about to pass out,” he whispers. Reality comes rushing back with a bang. He does look sick. He’s still got the dark circles and his eyes look a bit glassy, and he’s paler than usual. I remember the feel of his forehead on mine, sending lances of heat through my body. Maybe it wasn’t just tension that was warming me.

Shit, he must really feel awful. Really, really awful. Should I take him to A&E? No, he’d probably try to throttle me.

“Right,” I say, snapping out of my single-minded lust. “No problem.”

 

**Baz**

I’ve never hated myself as much as I do in this moment. Simon Snow kissed me. Simon Snow wants to kiss me again. He’s practically salivating and tripping over himself in his desire to kiss me.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t deliberately imagine that hunger in eyes sometimes. 

I feel like I’m going to vomit. My hand is shaking, the world is spinning, and I’m too dizzy to stand suddenly. I’ve lived my life in preparation of the moment that’s before me now, and my body is ruining it.

Snow has already snapped to attention, and he stops looking at me like he’s going to eat me alive, but the smile doesn’t fade.

“Tea, right? You need tea. Sit down.”

My traitorous body collapses onto the couch behind me. I hate myself.

Snow is already in the kitchen futzing around and clucking at me like a gran. I cannot believe that I’ve spent the last year imagining an erotic gropefest with him, only to get my opportunity and have it turn into Snow fussing over me like I’m a fainting lady.

He’s back at my side with tea impossibly fast and he hands it to me with that bursting smile of his. He hands it over slowly, and in doing so he steals my trick, rubbing his thumb over my hands. The feel of his skin sings through me like a cello, my own slow heartbeat adding the low thrum of bass.

I sip the tea slowly, not taking my eyes from him.

It’s delicious, and far too sweet, and I hate that he knows about my sweet tooth. It feels brilliant. It tastes brilliant. (He’s brilliant.)

“Why did you come if you aren’t feeling well?” he asks. His voice is soft.

Because I wanted to see you.

“We had a project to do.”

“I could have done it,” he says. “Or I could have just emailed you, or gone to your flat or something so you didn’t have to drag yourself out.”

I deliberately avoid thinking about Snow, at my flat, taking care of me. I think about my aunt Fiona, and what an atrocious roommate she is, and how she would react to Snow, in our flat, taking care of me. I hate how desperately I want it.

“It’s not a big deal, Snow,” I snap. “I’m contagious, I’m not dying.”

“You called me Simon before,” he says with a grin. He leans in to me and I think for a wild, pulsing moment he’s going to try to kiss me again, and I’m going to let him.

“No I didn’t,” I snap.

He’s still leaning, but then he’s reaching behind me for a blanket, and he’s wrapping it around my shoulders and I feel like the world’s biggest numpty. This is humiliating, and I hate myself for how much I love this. 

I can’t properly remember the last time someone doted on me like this. My mother, I assume. I was never comfortable asking Daphne, my stepmother, for solace, and my father wouldn’t know how to give it. Fiona has been actively making fun of me for being sick, and yet Snow — bumbling, moronic Snow — doesn’t even hesitate. Just hands me tea and a blanket.

Snow has gone back to retrieve the takeaway and my computer, and now he’s joining me on the couch. He’s scrolling through my computer and I have to fight the urge to grab it away from him, to snap it shut.

“You’ve done almost the entire project,” he marvels. “You’re high on a fever and you’ve typed up a perfect presentation.”

“I didn’t do it all,” I snap. My eyes feel blisteringly heavy. This blanket is extremely warm.

Snow has kicked off his shoes and pulled his legs up, and he looks devastatingly comfortable. I do the same, even though every nerve in my body feels like it’s turning in on itself and I’m so nervous I could vomit. Or maybe that’s the headache? I cant tell. All I know is that I want to sleep and I want Simon Snow to kiss me until I’m dead.

 

**Simon**

Baz is asleep on my couch.

I have absolutely no protocol for this. What do you do when you snog your worst enemy and then he falls asleep on your couch? 

I had been talking about the project just to fill the silence, because I had to get my mind off kissing him, and then I looked up and he was just…asleep.

His legs are tucked up under him and he took off his shoes at some point and he’s wearing very reasonable black socks. They match, unlike the ones I’m wearing right now. His head is rolled to the side and is resting on the back of the couch, just inches from my own.

I took the mug from him because I didn’t want it to spill, and I put another blanket on him because I think he gets cold easily. But other than that I haven’t wanted to move much. I don’t know how he’s going to react when he wakes up, so I’ve just been sitting here, in the same position, fiddling around on his computer trying to finish this presentation so he won’t have to worry about it.

Absolutely nothing in my life could have prepared me for how tonight is going.

It’s unnerving how vulnerable he looks right now. I keep expecting him to fly up and tell me it was a trap and punch me in the throat. 

He also looks too fucking good to be passed out from cold syrup. On my couch. When I got the winter bug last year I looked like I had gone through an exorcism, and yet here he is, looking like a posh asshole and wearing proper trousers.

I want to kiss him.

That would be creepy though. Massively creepy, and invasive, right?

I finish our project (my part is shit, even with all his work) and slowly put his computer on the table next to us. He stirs a bit when I move and he stretches, gracefully, like a fucking cat, and his legs unwind and he shifts slightly and then he’s leaning into me, his warm weight pressing against my shoulder.

I sit there, breathing, just waiting for him to stir before I tentatively place my hands on either side of his shoulders and steer him down, toward me, toward my chest, and then suddenly Baz is here, in my flat, in my lap, sleeping against me.

He makes a small sighing noise and buries his face further into the couch. He’s perfect. He’s absolutely fucking perfect.

 

**Baz**

It’s the light that wakes me. It’s wrong. It’s too bright; far too bright for my room. I squint my eyes open and it takes too much effort. I shut them again.

But my mind is already processing the view before me: a series of books scattered on the floor, a jumper slung over a chair. Simon Snow’s flat.

I go to sit up, and every bit of my body screams. I’m on his couch, his bloody uncomfortable couch, and someone has placed a pillow under my head and covered me with several blankets. There’s a box of tissues on the floor next to me, as well as a bottle of paracetamol, and a hot water bottle heater. There’s even a pair of joggers folded neatly next to it.

I hate the bristle in my eyes at this unexpected and entirely foreign sign of concern and support. It’s too kind. It’s too soft. It’s too Simon. I need to leave. 

I try to move sluggishly when I hear a rustling on my chest and look down.

Someone has taped a scrap paper to my chest.

I pull it off and stare at it blankly.

Snow’s handwriting is so atrocious that I have to squint at it for several moments before it finally swims into place.

_Hey freeloader. Thanks for passing out in the middle of our conversation. I had to go to work. I’ll be off at noon. Don’t be a twat and try to drive home, you’ll just end up killing someone. My rooms on the left. Feel free to use my bed, just don’t fucking vomit in it. If you’re gone when I get back, I’ll kill you. - Simon_

Snow wants me to wait for him in his bed.

It’s not even remotely the scenario in which I envisioned this happening, but at this moment everything hurts and for the first time in my life I’m too tired to be difficult. His note has steadied me. The insults feel familiar. His threat is what does me in.

I push back the blanket I’m lying under and pull myself off the couch. I stare at his joggers for far too long before I grab them, stagger toward the door on the left and open it tentatively, not at all prepared to be assaulted by the sight of Snow’s den of iniquity.

It’s a complete disaster. Clothes and books are everywhere. There’s a series of plants shoved on the available surfaces, and even in my state I can spot four Double Decker wrappers on the desk. 

My head screams as I peel off my trousers and shove my legs quickly into Snow’s joggers. Fuck all. This is going to kill me.

His bed is like a rat’s nest of blankets and pillows. It’s completely unkempt, unmade, probably a cesspool of Snow’s germs, and I collapse into it like a dying man reaching for water.

It’s all so intimate. It’s too intimate. It’s insane and unreal, and I feel invasive and voyeuristic lying in his bed, wearing his trousers, covering myself with his blanket and breathing in the scent of roasted coffee and cinnamon buns that envelopes me.

This isn’t what strangers do. We’re still strangers, right? We’ve gone from classmates to being openly hostile to being class partners to almost kissing (no; we did kiss. He kissed me. Even through the haze I still recollect this) to being — what? What is this?

I’m in his bed, in his clothes, taking comfort from his smell and waiting for him to come home to me.

This is what boyfriends do.

I’ve gone fucking mad. I’m a mental patient, thrown into an asylum, and Simon fucking Snow is holding the keys.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Be soft, Baz,” I say. “Just for a moment. I promise it won’t kill you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr at basic_banshee -- https://bit.ly/2ufVENJ  
> Inspired by this beautiful artwork -- https://bit.ly/2pBY03T

**Simon**

_PB: He’s still here._

My stomach flips over and punches itself when I see pennys text. I put down the phone quickly and look back at the queu of customers waiting for me. I take a deep breath.

_SS: u sure?_

I can’t help it. I have to be positive. 

_PB: Pretty sure? He’s not on the couch but his bag and shoes are still here._

I shove my phone back in my pocket, and when I turn to face the girl in front of me, I feel like I’m smiling so brightly I might blind her.

He’s still there. Baz is still there, and he’s not on the couch, which means he’s in my bed.

Baz is in my bed, waiting for me to come home.

What the fuck is happening?

The time is dragging by. Every minute feels like it’s going to be the one that finally kills me. 

What if he’s not there?

What if he is?

I didn’t think this through when I left. My plan last night had been to watch a few episodes of the Great British Bake Off while he napped against me. I figured he would wake up at some point, make an awful comment, set the place on fire and walk out through the flames.

But instead I fell asleep. 

When Penny woke me up it was still dark out, and Baz was still asleep, my arm draped over his chest. I just stared at him, like this couldn’t possibly be my life. He was really out of it, because when I slipped out from behind him to get ready for work he didn’t even move. 

I can’t get the image of him asleep, vulnerable and soft, his hard edges eased, his mouth open just slightly.

I left him enough supplies to survive the plague, and I’m embarrassed about that now. I went full mum. Or at least that’s what I assume full mum is. 

I stumble through work and when the clock hits noon I’m practically running out of the cafe. All I can think about is him.

 

**Baz**

My eyes fly open when I hear a crash and a mumbled curse. I forget where I am momentarily. My limbs are tangled in a mass of sheets, my head feels light and fuzzy, and my eyes are gritty.

But then I see Simon Snow standing in front of me, hunched over and smiling sheepishly, holding his leg where he just crashed it into the corner of a desk, and I snap immediately back to reality.

“Hey,” I say hoarsely. I don’t know what else to say. I don’t know why I’m still here. In his bed.

“How are you feeling?” he asks me. I sit up slowly, achingly slowly so that my head won’t tilt and blur my vision.

“Better,” I say. Then, “a bit horrified though.”

Snow shifts awkwardly, then sits carefully on the edge of his bed. I’ve never seen him take such calculated movements before.

“Why?”

“Because I passed out on your couch like I was pissed,” I snap. “And now I’m…” I trail off.

He’s silent for a long moment.

“I’m glad you stayed. I wanted you to.”

It never ceases to amaze me that Snow says exactly what he’s thinking, and means what he says. How is he able to be so open? How is he able to be so soft?

I struggle for words, but only end up shrugging. I look like a dumb prick.

Snow smiles. It starts small and then spreads, growing roguish.

“Do you think you’re still contagious?”

“Yes,” I say immediately. I have no idea if I am or not, but I know I haven’t brushed my teeth. And I know I have to look frightful. I can feel my hair sticking up in a matted, tangled mess. Why did I stay? I want to set myself on fire.

Snow doesn’t seem bothered by my rejection though. He’s still smiling.

“I reckon by now it hardly matters if you‘re still germy,” he says. 

“Why?” I snap. His grin is too large.

“I’m already infected, likely.”

I stare at him and go to say something, but he beats me to it.

“Considering you slept in my arms last night, that is.”

 

**Simon**

His eyes go wide and then narrow into slits, and I can’t tell if he’s suspicious or if he’s planning to smash my head into the wall. **  
**

He looks ridiculous. His dark hair is framing his face in a voluminous mass, sticking up at odd angles, and the haze of sleep is still clinging to him. I want to kiss the fog off of him.

“It’s true,” I say. “You fell asleep, and then you clung to me like a needy girlfriend.”

I see him flush, and I realise that he’s embarrassed. I’ve teased him as far as I can go.

He shifts, and my blankets shift a bit, and I see the top of my joggers sticking out from under the comforter.

He’s wearing my joggers.

I hear the blood rush through my ears and all I can think about his him, right now, in my bed, in my clothes.

I move toward him. I have to kiss him.

 

**Baz**

I slept in Simon fucking Snow’s arms, and I don’t even remember. Everything about this absolute shit show of a day has gone as wrong as it could. I slept in Simon Snow’s arms, and I didn’t even get to enjoy it, and now he’s using it against me.

“I should go,” I say. Snow is advancing on me like he’s going to eat me alive, crawling across the bed toward me like some explicit fantasy.

He pauses at my words though.

“Why?”

It’s a good question.

“I have things to do.”

“Like what?”

Like put my trousers back on and attempt to regain my dignity. I’m never going to be able to see him again. This isn’t how this was supposed to go.

“I have a life, Snow. I can’t just sit here all day so you can lust after me like a school boy.”

His smile falters a bit.

“Why are you like this?” His head is cocked to the side. “Why are you pushing me away?”

Because I’m a controlling prick.

“I’m not pushing you away,” I say instead, then sigh. “Look, Snow, I appreciate your effort. Thank you for letting me stay here. But this is odd, isn’t it? I should be going.”

“It’s not odd,” he says. His smile is gone, and his voice is impossibly small. I hate myself for constraining anything about him. “It’s only odd if you think it’s odd.”

He just says it, like anything could possibly be that simple. Like you could just decide the way things were going to be.

“Simon,” I start, and I see the return of the smile. I’ve already given too much.

“You said you wanted to kiss me,” he says, moving forward again. He’s right in front of me. His hand is moving toward my hand at a glacial pace.

“You don’t even know me,” I say quietly. Because he doesn’t. All we’ve ever done is just insult each other. 

“Yes I do.” He stops inching toward me and instead tucks his legs up underneath him. 

“Not really,” I counter. Why am I fighting this? Why do I make people work so hard to love me?

“I know you’re a fucking prick,” Snow says. “And you’re a mean, offputting piece of shit.”

He’s not wrong, but the words sting a little bit.

“But you’re not as mean as you think you are,” he says. And the smile starts to begin again. I stiffen. 

“How would you know that?” I ask lightly. (It wasn’t lightly. Nothing about this is light.) (I’m falling apart.)

“You’re in my bed, wearing my trousers. If you truly hated me, you wouldn’t be.”

“Maybe it’s part of an elaborate plot to humiliate you,” I snarl back. “Maybe I’m just taking advantage of you.”

The grin gets wider.

“Maybe I’m fine with that.”

Fuck. I’m officially out of my depth. He won’t stop staring.

“I know you’re smart; you’re so fucking smart. And you’re fit as hell. And you’re cool,” he says. I flush a little bit. He’s right and wrong; I’m not cool. I’m a nerd. But I am brilliant. And I am fit. Not as fit as him though.

“And I know this entire situation is setting off your fight or flight, and you’re currently considering punching me in the throat and kicking me on the way out,” he says.

I’m not. I’m really not. All I’m thinking about is his hand, inching closer, and his lips, still far away.

“And I know you want to kiss me.”

 

**Simon**

I’m not sure how far I can push this. He still looks angry. No, angry isn’t right. He’s stiff. He’s uncomfortable. He’s….scared?

There’s no fucking way he’s scared. He’s Baz. Baz doesn’t get scared.

One last push. That’s it, then I’ll walk away, I’ll leave him be, I’ll let this go. He can decide on the next move, or he can go. 

I don’t want him to, though. If he leaves, I worry that he’ll just act like none of this ever happened. Like I didn’t kiss him. Like he didn’t spend the night in my arms. Like he didn’t wait for me. In my bed. We’ll just go back to being strangers, insulting each other in passing.

I close the gap. We’re so close we could touch. So close we could kiss.

“I know you called me Simon,” I say quietly. 

“No I didn’t,” he responds immediately. I smile. I press my forehead to his, just like he did to me yesterday, and I see his eyes close.

“Be soft, Baz,” I say. “Just for a moment. I promise it won’t kill you.” 

I close my eyes too.

And then he kisses me.

It’s nothing like yesterday’s kiss. Yesterday he was passive, weak, non-responsive. Today he’s leading the charge. He’s fighting me, pressing his lips to my mouth with more energy than he probably has, capturing my bottom lip in his teeth and then sucking on it, and I’m struggling for breath. I push back, matching him blow for blow, moving my chin, but then he’s gone.

He’s disappeared from my lips just as I feel his hands come up around my back, and suddenly his mouth is at my throat, kissing along the edge of my neck, up the side, in a random pattern until he hits my Adam’s apple and I have to tilt my head back in surprise and desire.

He’s kissing my moles. I realise this as his tongue darts out to lick at a spot beneath my far ear where I know I have a mole. I gasp. My hands are in his hair. I don’t know when they got there but I grasp them tighter, desperate for him to come back, to keep kissing my lips, but he’s still busy at my neck and so I pepper kisses where I can reach; in his hair, on his forehead, the top of his ear, the edge of his jaw.

My legs are screaming out beneath me from the awkward angle I’ve forced them into, and so I tear away from him for one horrible, agonising moment, and I push him back, back onto my bed and into my pillows and then I lean above him on all fours, willing him to reach up for me.

He does.

“Baz,” I say between breaths, my hand slipping down his side to rest at his hips. “I know something else.”

“I don’t care,” he snaps. He manages to sound angry even in the midst of snogging.

“Don’t be a bint,” I say. “You’ll want to hear.”

“I seriously doubt that.” He bites my lip again to shut me up, and it works for a moment.

“Baz,” I say again.

“I’m going to kill you,” he murmurs against my skin as he shifts his weight and flips me. I’m on my back now and Baz is above me, bearing down on me, his lips whispering their way down my jaw and back to my neck. 

My hands are around his back, sliding under his shirt, scratching over the smooth, soft skin of his back. One hand runs down his side, over the bump of his rips and back down to his hip. I hold on to it, probably too hard, but I can’t moderate myself. My mind’s shut off. 

I’ve never lost myself in a kiss before like this. But this is hardly a kiss, is it? This is a full on snog. This is a full body affair, our legs twined to each other, his hips bearing down on mine. I can hear the soft hitches of his breath in surprise and want, I can smell the faint scent of his shampoo when his hair falls in my face. And I feel his lips all over me.

“Baz,” I say again. I’m trying to get his attention but it comes out like a moan, and he nips back at my Adam’s apple again. He’s trying to recreate it. I cup his face and drag him back to my lips.

“I’ve wanted this for a long time,” he whispers against the corner of my mouth. I run my tongue over his bottom lip.

“Me too,” I say. “I’ve been a bit obsessed with you.”

I’ve been feeling his energy fade. I knew that he didn’t have much strength left for this kiss, but my words have reinvigourated him, and he’s back with a vengeance, punishing me with his mouth.

 

**Penelope**

They have absolutely no idea that I’m here.

The bedroom door is wide open and I can see this entire gropefest from the kitchen, which is unfortunate because I really need to eat lunch. I’m trying to keep my back to them, to not listen, to be as small and quick as possible, but I still hear bits of their conversation, bits I really wish I didn’t hear, like Simon practically shouting, “Baz, you look fucking good in joggers,” and Baz snapping back, “I know, Simon. Shut up and keep kissing me.”

 

**Baz**

This could be the moment I die. And I’d be fine with that. I’d be perfectly content to take my last breath here, in Simon Snow’s arms, my head resting against his chest as he plays with my hair. 

We had to stop kissing because I started coughing, and I couldn’t stop. And once that cleared I realised how tired I am. I used every drop of energy in my body to jump Snow, and now I am depleted. I gave it all to him. I don’t regret it.

And now we’re in his bed, I’m in his arms, and we aren’t fighting. We’re watching something on his computer that has to do with baking, and I’m starting to think that all his TV habits revolve around food. But I don’t care. I’m here. 

“Oh, hey, Baz?” he says. He shifts a bit so I sit up. “Are you hungry? I brought some food.”

He leans over to his bedside table and grabs two coffees and two wrapped sandwiches. They’re cheese toasties, and they’re cold, but I don’t care. I dig into it. I cover my mouth while I eat — we’re not past that particular neuroticism yet, but we’ll get there — and I reach for the coffee. I see his eyebrows go up, so I pause.

I turn the cup and look for what he’s written on it. I have no idea what to expect.

But there, printed in his awful writing that I love so much are the words “narcoleptic twat.”

I smile. I can’t help it. I look up and his face is eager and bright and perfect and everything that I love in this world.

“Simon,” I say slowly. I make my voice soft. “You spelt ‘narcoleptic’ correctly.”

And he’s kissing me.


	8. EPILOGUE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> EPILOGUE:
> 
> Maybe Baz just doesn’t like touching in public. I mean, he did kiss me on the tube. But maybe he just prefers to show affection in private.
> 
> Because he hasn’t stopped touching me since last night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr at basic_banshee -- https://bit.ly/2ufVENJ  
> Inspired by this beautiful artwork -- https://bit.ly/2pBY03T

**BAZ**

He’s still not here.

I should have expected him to be late, and yet I still manage to be surprised.

I don’t even want to go to this party. I wanted to spend my first real weekend with him going out to dinner, then coming back to the flat and hopefully kissing him blind for the next two days. 

I only agreed to go to because he bothered me about it enough, and Wellbelove texted me five separate times, and apparently I am now a person who gives in to peer pressure.

It’s fifteen past, and he’s not here. I’ll give him ten more before I call him and berate him.

I pace around the flat a bit, I pull out my phone and I flip through our texts. There’s pages of them, all generated in less than a week.

I feel like a lovesick teenager.

Our last conversation is still glaring at me from the screen.

_SS: running late!! Sorry!! I’ll be there soon :)_

_BP: It’s fine, I gave you the wrong time because I expected you to be late._

That was an hour ago. We’re now approaching the time that he actually needed to be here. 

I should text the moron.

_BP: Where are you? You don’t get to stand me up for something I don’t want to go to._

I don’t think he’s standing me up. I don’t think he’d do that. Not deliberately.

But I could see him passing some child stuck in a well and getting engrossed in some heroic rescue and completely forgetting about this charity gala I don’t want to go to. Which would be fine, but I’m wearing my favourite suit and I’ve pulled my hair up, and it would be extraordinarily rude of him to forget.

I hear the doorbell and I practically run to it, trying to fix the expression of scorn on my face so that I can open the door slowly and sneer at him.

But then I open it and I see him standing there. In a _suit._

Simon Snow is wearing a suit.

How does someone like him find a suit that good? The trousers are a bit tight, and they cling (not unpleasantly) but the jacket fits him perfectly in the shoulders, and the metallic grey fabric plays off of his blue eyes. The only thing missing is a tie.

“You’re late,” I say condescendingly, even though I want to drag him in here by his lapel and run my teeth over his neck.

(Apparently I like Snow in a suit.)

“Sorry,” he’s already blustering, his cheeks growing red. His hair looks like it’s been mussed by the wind and his top buttons are undone, revealing the hint of his collarbone. He looks like a mess. It’s a great look on him. “I couldn’t get the tie on right, and Pen didn’t know how, so we had to watch a video, and—“

I grab his lapel (I can’t resist) and pull him into my flat and hold out my hand.

“How did you get to be this age without learning to tie a tie?” I ask him. He fishes the tie from his pocket and hands it to me with a sheepish expression and a shrug.

“Street kids don’t really need ties, eh?” he says, deepening his atrocious Manchester-adjacent accent and slurring his words just to piss me off.

“You’re a disgrace,” I say, looping the tie around his neck and pulling up the edges of his shirt to tuck them under. I button his top buttons with a small pang of disappointment.

“You look good,” he says with a large, goofy smile as I start focusing on tying the knot. “I like your hair like that.”

“I know, now stay still,” I snap, putting a finger to his lips to silence him while I finish his tie. He kisses it.

I hate him.

I finish his tie and step back. 

He looks good. Buttoned up and put together, like a proper gentleman. 

It looks odd on him.

“On second thought,” I say, stepping toward him. “No tie.” 

I undo it quickly, pull it off, and pop his top two buttons. I let my finger trace a light line across his exposed throat. (I can’t help it.) Before I step back, I press the ghost of a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

I love that I can do that now.

“What?” he asks, confused. “Seriously? No tie? You’re wearing a bow tie!”

“Of course I am,” I say, turning to put on my coat. “But that’s me.” I grab my keys and wallet and gesture to the door. “Shall we?”

 

**SIMON**

I still can’t believe I talked him into this. 

He absolutely didn’t want to go to this charity thing for Agatha’s parents, but I know that she blew up his phone about it, and honestly, it sounded fun. I liked the idea of going out somewhere with him. He seems like the kind of bloke who goes and does things, and I want to be a part of that.

“Can’t we just get take away and stay in?” he asked petulantly. “I’m still sick.”

He wasn’t. It’s been over a week since he was sick. He was well enough to go to football practice yesterday, so he’s well enough to go to this.

And I’m glad I pushed it, because he looks good. _Really_ good.

I’ve seen him in a suit before, a handful of times. He’s stopped by the cafe while wearing on before, and once he came to class in one. I’ve got no idea where the hell he wears these things to, but he looks sharp as shit in the dark green one he’s wearing tonight, so I’m not going to question it.

He’s even pulled his hair back, the way I like it. I was embarrassed when I mentioned that, two days ago. He had it half up and half down and he was getting ready to go for a run, and I had run my fingers through it before I could stop myself. It was the first time I’d touched him like that, casually, outside of snogging.

“It looks good like that,” I’d said, flushing. “Makes you look fit.”

And then he wore it like that tonight. For me. We’re doing all of this for me.

It’s a short taxi ride to the hotel where the gala is, and I think about holding his hand in the backseat, but we haven’t really started doing that yet. 

We haven’t done much of anything, honestly, aside from kiss and text. 

Why does holding his hand seem so much more terrifying than sucking on his tongue?

That first day, in my bed, we hit a ten on the intimacy chart immediately. We kissed. We held hands. He laid in my arms and he fell asleep again and when I walked him to his taxi that night I kissed his forehead and he was still wearing my joggers. 

But since then it’s like we’ve reverted. We’ll smile at each other. He sits next to me in class. He nudged my knee under the desk once and grinned at me when a first year said something stupid. One time when I handed him his coffee (the cup said “fit dickhead”) he brushed my knuckle with his thumb.

I ran my hands through his hair before his practice. And several times in the hallway outside our classroom or on the pavement outside his work where I wait for him, I’ve taken his face in my hands and I’ve kissed the shit out of him. He always matches it. But it’s always me who starts it.

Today in the flat was the first time he’s even remotely initiated intimate physical contact.

Maybe that’s just how he is, though. Maybe it’s always going to be up to me.

We get to the hotel quickly, and I brush my hand along his back as we make our way through the foyer and pass off our coats and invitations.

I see him glance at me out of the corner of his eye, and so I do it again when we get to the bar and wait for our drinks.

“Gin? Really?” he sneers after he orders his Scotch. I give him a wide grin.

“Yeah well, I’d prefer a snakebite and black, but I’m trying to be respectable, _Basilton,_ ” I say. I smile at him and let my fingers steal across his back and rest on his hip. I feel him tense slightly. Shit, does he not want this? I’m about to pull back when I see the barest hint of a blush travel up his dark cheeks, and I grin even wider.

He likes it, the bastard.

I’m going to make it my goal to touch him, then. If he won’t initiate, I’ll force him out of his shell. 

We’re still at the bar talking when Agatha finds us. She zeros in on Baz first — I’ve got my back to the room — and I hear her breathy voice before I see her.

“Basil!” she says, coming toward us. “I hope you’ve brought a date.”

I turn, reflexively, and she stops. She’s still smiling, but she’s slowed slightly and I can see she’s confused.

Honestly, I probably should have been more prepared for this awkwardness.

Clearly she knows Baz is gay, but as far as she knows, I like girls. Shit, as far as I know, I still like girls. Well, girls and Baz.

 

**BAZ**

Wellbelove knows. I don’t know if Snow wants her to know, but she definitely knows.

I know they dated, but I don’t have much more information aside from that the break up was mutual. 

I was surprised when I found out, honestly. She’s far too out of his league.

I’m waiting for him to stammer and bluster and I’m dreading taking over this conversation and having to figure out if Snow is here as my date or my friend (and thus dig into the deeper, more realistic question of whether Snow is my friend or my boyfriend). But instead he just beams at her, reaches in to kiss her cheek, and steps back to slide his arm around my waist again. (For the third time tonight.) (Not that I’m counting.)

“Yeah, I came with Baz. I hope you don’t mind me crashing,” he says brightly, and squeezes my waist.

I’m going to die on this spot.

Wellbelove looks between the two of us for a split second longer, then beams.

“Perfect!” she says, then leans past us to order wine. “I’ve got to go say hi to a friend of my parents’ but find me, Yeah? And get something to eat.”

And then she flits off, like she was never there.

“I haven’t seen food, have you?” Snow asks me. He’s completely alert, his eyes scanning the room. He lands on a waiter in the corner, and his face explodes in joy.

“Wait here,” he orders, and then he disappears. I lean back, content to watch him slip through the crowd, issuing hellos and apologies as he goes. He’s like a damn dog. Everyone he crashes into is delighted. Sooner than I could have expected, he’s back at my side with food. 

He offers it to me, but I shake my head. The food at these things is never good.

He devours it immediately, and then looks extremely disappointed.

There’s a band in the corner playing some kind of bastardised jazz music, and Agatha is amongst the (largely elderly) couples that are dancing. She catches my eye and waves at me, then gestures for me to come over. I shake my head. 

I will not dance with Snow for the first time to the dulcet tones of a dying saxophone player.

I feel Snow slip his hand back around my waist (that makes four times) and he leans in until I can feel his warm breath on my ear. He smells like gin and cinnamon and it makes my hair stand up.

“Fancy a dance?” he asks. I don’t think he’s trying to be seductive. I smirk.

“No. This music is awful.”

Snow sighs and leans back.

“Yeah, it kind of is,” he says morosely. “And I thought the food would be better. I was just really hoping there would be sandwiches.” 

“Oh, I should have warned you,” I say. My voice is soft. I do feel a little bad. “The food at these things is always terrible.”

Snow looks at me like I’ve just betrayed him, then tilts his glass back and finishes his gin.

“Want to get out of here?” he asks. He puts the glass back on the bar forcibly.

“Oh God, yes, more than anything,” I say, not even trying to keep the immense relief from my voice as I grab his hand and steer him toward the coat check.

 

**SIMON**

Maybe Baz just really hates doing things.

As soon as I suggest we leave, he’s like a different person. He holds my hand on the way to get our coats. 

“Want to walk?” I ask him when we’re outside. It’s nice enough out, though a bit cold. I see him start to argue — he hates cold — but I take his hand, and his mouth immediately closes.

We walk for who knows long, and he tells me about the last few events like this he got dragged to. I wish he’d shared those stories with me beforehand, because I definitely thought this night was going to be extremely different.

We end up wandering into a chippy in Southwark, and a few eyebrows raise at our suits, but we ignore them and grab a table at the back of the shop.

I take his hand again while we wait for food, and when I gently touch my foot to his ankle, his knee jerks into the top of the table.

“Stop being a twat,” he snarls at me, but I grin even wider.

He loosens up throughout dinner. He still covers his mouth with his hand when he eats, and I’ve no idea what that’s about, but at one point I make him laugh loudly and the hand drops away and I see the whole mess of food in his mouth. It’s absolutely revolting, but I’m slightly relieved that he’s not hiding fangs or something. 

He laughs more freely after that, though, and when I run my hand over his knee he doesn’t even flinch. 

I guess it’s a bit like exposure therapy, then. He’s just got to get used to being touched.

Because I don’t plan to stop.

When we leave, _he_ takes _my_ hand, and I steer us toward the closest tube station.

“Want to come back to mine?” I ask. I tense up a bit. He hasn’t been back to my flat since that first night he stayed over. I don’t know I’m being too pushy or insinuating something.

But he just smiles at me. Fuck, I love that smile.

“Sounds great. I’m fucking freezing,” he says. I drop his hand and loop an arm around him and head down the stairs.

 

**BAZ**

He’s doing this on purpose.

The touching, that is. 

He won’t stop touching me. Every chance he gets, his hand is still tracing maddening circles on my knee, my palm, the back of my neck. 

It’s driving me fucking mental.

He’s chatting away about something — Penny? — but I can’t focus, because he’s sitting next to me on the tube, absentmindedly swirling his thumb over my thigh like he has no fucking idea that it’s setting every nerve in my body on edge.

“How long did you date Agatha?” I blurt out. I need to focus. I need to grab on to a topic that will hook me.

“Too long, honestly,” he says with a shrug. He removes his hand from my knee  and reaches it around my shoulders to rest on the back of the seat. “I was kind of a terrible boyfriend. I’m not very good. At...that.”

Oh.

Oh, so that’s where this is going.

I take a deep breath. I’m not sure if I can do the friends with benefits, no label kind of thing with him. 

Oh who am I kidding? I’d do anything to be close to him, especially if he keeps playing with the hair at the nape of my neck like he is now.

But still. Maybe it would be better to make that clear now, so that down the road I’m not entirely invested and even more obsessed, and then completely gutted when this falls to shit.

He’s saying something though. What is he saying? I have to focus.

“You’ve been warned,” he smiles, like he’s joking, but his voice doesn’t sound very humourous. 

“What?” I ask. Christ, I’m starting to sound like him.

“I said I’m kind of a terrible boyfriend. So, you know, you’ve been warned.” He laughs again, and then rakes a hand through his curls. Even after just a week, I know it’s a sign that he’s unsure. “I’d like to not be a shit boyfriend, though. For you.”

Oh.

Oh, that’s where this was going.

Simon Snow wants to be my shit boyfriend.

I can’t help myself. Even though we’re on public transit and there’s a special place in hell for people who do this on public transit, I lean over and kiss him.

“I’d love for you to be my terrible boyfriend,” I whisper, and kiss him again. I feel him smile against my mouth. I want to feel this every day for the rest of my life.

By the time we get back to his flat, I’m ready to jump him.

Bunce appears to be gone, because the flat is dark when he lets us in. He wastes no time pulling off his coat and jacket and tossing them over a chair, and rolls up his shirt sleeves as he heads to the kitchen.

Holy fuck, this is a better look than the suit.

“You want wine?” he calls, and I nod, like an idiot, even though he can’t see me, because I’ve lost the ability to speak, apparently. “Put on music, will you? Don’t choose from mine, all I’ve got is weird shit.”

I head to his speakers and scroll through my phone quickly, picking the first somewhat suitable playlist I can find. I won’t let myself dwell on this. If I dwell, I’ll be standing here forever trying to pick something to listen to, because I’m a control freak. 

He returns with two glasses and a bottle of absolutely shit wine, but I don’t care. I can teach him proper taste later.

“Did I mention you look good tonight?” I ask him. Because he looks good. He looks fucking perfect.

 

**SIMON**

I don’t know why I offered him wine. It’s not even mine. It’s Penny’s, for when she stays up late and watches romantic comedies on Netflix. But this has been a proper evening, and is shaping up to be a bit of a real date, and wine is usually part of that, right?

Right?

I’ve got no fucking idea what I’m doing.

Baz seems to though, because when I get back he’s put on some kind of mellow background music that I don’t recognise at all, but it’s making me jittery as hell because I suppose it’s what someone could call “mood” music and I’ve got no fucking idea what kind of mood this is supposed to be.

“Did I mention you look good tonight?” he asks as I hand him the wine. Shit, he’s laying this on thick. This is properly romantic, isn’t it?

Be cool, Simon. Don’t blush.

“You look fit yourself,” I say back in a weird mumble. Not cool.

My trousers are way too tight. They’re too tight in the thighs, and have been suffocating me all evening. And ever since we ate I feel like I can’t breathe. This is not ideal. I want to reach down and adjust them, but I don’t want to compliment him and then immediately grab at my balls.

The song that was playing ends, and a new one starts, and Baz turns to look at me with a smile on his face, that, frankly, scares the fuck out of me.

“Still want that dance?” he asks. 

I raise an eyebrow.

“Here? In my flat?”

He nods. He’s got one hand in his pocket, and he holds the other out to me, like this is the most casual and normal thing.

“I uh…” I glance around. “Thing is, I can’t dance.”

“I assumed,” he responds. God, he’s a dick.

He advances on me. He’s so determined. 

He puts one hand on the small of my back and takes my hand in his other one. I put my hand on his shoulder. We’re standing like awkward school children. He steps in closer, and our chests touch, and I think I’m going to pass out or jump him.

The song is a slow one, some deep crooning song set to piano, and so we don’t move much, just sort of sway a bit. It feels good, and I let myself rest my head on his shoulder, just for a moment, and I feel him kiss my hair.

“Hey Simon,” he says softly, and I look up and grin. Something good always happens when he uses my first name. 

“Yeah?” I whisper. There’s no reason to, but speaking loudly feels wrong.

“You know that this is what I like, right? I’m not a big ‘going out’ kind of person.”

“Really?” I ask. He nods.

“You’d never think it, since I’m the world’s least relaxed person and I have zero chill, but I actually prefer just doing casual things. With you.”

I exhale a loud huff of breath.

“Shit,” I say. “Good. That’s…great, that’s great.”

He laughs and kisses the side of my neck, and I tense. 

“Though I’ll never say no to seeing you in a suit,” he murmurs. I honestly don’t think I’ve ever heard him say something so complimentary. Too bad these trousers are actually currently conspiring to kill me. They’re suffocating me and I have to piss so bad.

The song ends, and he leans in to kiss me, and fuck I want to, but I step back.

“Sorry,” I say, hating myself more than I ever have in this moment. “I’ve got to get out of these  trousers, they’re driving me mad.”

He raises his eyebrow and the corner of his mouth quirks up, and I pretty much throw myself into my room before he sees that I’ve gone entirely beet red.

 

**BAZ**

This night is going much, much better than I thought it would.

I’m not sure why he ran when I went to kiss him, but as soon as he comes back out, I’m not letting him out of my grip. 

I finish my glass of wine while I wait (it’s disgusting), and when he pads back out in bare feet, he’s wearing sweatpants and a tee and an adorably sleepy smile.

“Sorry. Those trousers were killing me,” he says.

“They were killing me too,” I respond. I see him flush. When the fuck did I become this brave?

“Hey,” he says slowly, carefully. “If you want to stay over, you can borrow my joggers and a shirt?” He holds out a soft pile of clothes that he’s already gathered (the confident prick) and my eyes snap to the joggers.

Those fucking joggers.

He looks nervous, like he’s just offered me something incredibly private and sensitive. Is he nervous that I’ll say no? Or is he nervous about the implications of what he’s asked?

I don’t care. I don’t want anything except to kiss him till we both pass out.

“Have you got a jumper as well?” I ask him. “Last time I slept here I nearly froze to death.”

He lets loose a smile that could disintegrate me.

“I’ll turn on the radiator and build you a fire if you’ll stay,” he says, coming closer.

“Or you could just kiss me,” I answer, and he’s launching at me before I even have time to smirk.

 

**SIMON**

Maybe Baz just doesn’t like touching in public. I mean, he did kiss me on the tube. But maybe he just prefers to show affection in private.

Because he hasn’t stopped touching me since last night. I swear to God, my lips still hurt. But in a good way. 

In a great way.

Even this morning, when I woke up, he had his arm thrown around me, his hair fanned out on the pillow. 

He was wearing a jumper and lying under two blankets, but he still woke up when I got up to go make tea and bitched at me about how cold he was.

I‘ve barely turned on the kettle when he appears in the kitchen behind me, his hair sticking in a thousand directions, his eyes still sleepy. There’s a crease cutting across his soft brown skin from where he slept, his face pressed against the blanket.

He presses himself against my back and wraps his arms around me.

I could get used to this.

“You’re so warm,” he mumbles by way of explanation. But I don’t think it’s entirely about the warmth.

“There’s like, six blankets in the bed,” I say. I can feel him tense, and he lifts his chin from my shoulder.

“Fuck off,” he snaps, and stalks back to my room.

Fuck, I love him.

 

 


End file.
